Divergence
by northernexposure
Summary: A body at the high-profile Olympic building site causes trouble for the city - and Leo's team. Straight mystery with a hint of H/N.
1. Chapter 1

**Divergence**

**Author****'****s ****note:** There must be something about this time of year… dark and dingy, perfect for stories of nefarious deeds and gruesome murders, I suppose. This one revolves not only around the _Silent __Witness _characters (and it'll have a good dose of Harry/Nikki), but a few of mine as well. I hope you'll give it a chance. Thanks for reading – and I love feedback, so please leave some! Oh – and Merry Christmas, one and all.

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

Detective Sergeant Celia Cross pulled to a stop and looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. A bruise was forming across the high arch of her left cheekbone, but so far her eye hadn't turned bloodshot. The make-up she'd slapped on was doing a reasonable job of covering the black smudge coalescing under her pale skin, but the aspirin she'd chugged was proving less effective. She'd just have to put up with looking fine rather than feeling it, as usual. It was time to go to work.

Cross ran her fingers through the dark waves of her hair, and then opened the door and got out. The low winter sun was brighter than her tinted windows had suggested. The light stabbed into her eyes like a knife. If there had been a sound to accompany the feeling, it would have been of nails scraping down a chalkboard.

The DS leaned against silver-grey Ford Mondeo she'd inherited from her predecessor for a moment, and then opened the driver's door again. Sliding back inside, she reached for the glove compartment and rummaged around until she found her sunglasses. Cross slid them on, glanced at herself in the mirror once more, and got out again.

Her heeled black boots hit mud and she cursed. She'd known she'd regret wearing them even as she pulled them on, but sometimes a woman just needed to feel tall, and today was definitely one of those days. On the plus side, at least the boots were keeping the hems of her suit trousers out of the mud.

_Small__mercies_, she thought to herself. Those were the ones her mother had always told her to be grateful for. Big mercies weren't for the likes of Celia Cross and her dear old put-upon, worn-out-by-the-weens Ma.

Slamming the Mondeo's door behind her, Celia made her way across the building site, glancing up at the buildings emerging like mountains from the freezing London fog. Considering that the Games were opening in less than six months, it seemed to her that the Olympic Committee had plenty to worry about already without the burden of a dead body turning up smack bang in the middle of it all.

Cross headed for the tent that had been erected over the remains. There was a faint buzz of activity around it, officers busily heading to and fro. She had to show her warrant card to a conscientious uniform who hadn't seen her likeness yet, but obviously recognised the name. She ignored his deferential nod and bee-lined for the tent. Outside it stood a dark-haired and handsome young constable. She wracked her aching brain for a moment and came up with the name Neil, but his last escaped her. Fail. He waited for her to approach, squinting at her glasses in the morning light.

"Rough night for you too then, Ma'am?" joked man-boy Neil, with a smile that plenty of women would find winning but that she found irritating and inappropriate, mostly because it was.

"Away w' your cheek," she told him, her harsh Glaswegian accent unexpectedly sharp in the morning chill.

The constable's chiselled face took on an affronted look. He gallantly tried to hide it, but he needn't have bothered. Cross couldn't care less.

"In there?"

He nodded, but she was already pushing the tent flaps aside, shouldering her way in. Beneath her feet there was more mud, until there wasn't. About three feet inside the tent, the earth fell away into a trench that ran out beneath either end of the faintly flapping plastic. It had rained in the night, and water had gathered at the bottom of the trench. It pooled there muddily, rippling in the wind that slipped beneath the low-lingering wreaths of fog. The body was curled up in it, like a shy fern taking a tentative, filthy dip.

"Who found him?" Cross asked. The corpse was clearly male.

"The night watchman," said the young constable, his brow still glowering but his voice level. "He was doing his last check before the day shift arrived. That was about an hour ago."

The DS checked her watch. It was only now just after 7.30. Day shift started early.

"Poor old guy got a terrible shock," the constable continued. "He swears the body wasn't there when he did his previous rounds."

Cross stuck her hands in her trouser pockets. December was finally beginning to bite. "Which would have been when?"

"He swears he does them every hour."

Cross nodded, running her gaze around the body. A deep slick of blood had seeped into the earth beneath it. There was no sign of a trail against the sides of the trench, suggesting the body lay where it had first fallen. She took in the olive skin and dark hair.

"Any idea who he is?"

The constable nodded. "The night watchman ID'd him as Antonious Epithemus. A Greek builder from Athens. He'd been employed on the site as a general labourer for more than a year. Described as quiet, well-liked and a solid worker."

"And the night watchman didn't hear anything?"

"Nah, but Sarge - he's getting on a bit, and he might be spot-on about his hourly checks, but he's got a TV and an alarm clock in there. I wouldn't be surprised if he dozed off here and there in between."

Cross nodded. The Olympic site was a high-profile terrorist target, which meant just getting anywhere near it took a massive effort. She'd had to show her ID three times before she'd even got into the main complex. By the time you got this far in, you'd been swept, logged and checked so often that a security guard here was just making up the numbers. Still...

"He's sure, though? Not a thing?"

"No ma'am. Says he came out here and four the body, just like that, ma'am."

"Just like that, eh?"

Cross found it hard to believe that anything happened 'just like that.' A narrow metal pipe had been driven into the centre of the dead man's forehead. His dead, white eyes were wide-open and bulging, as if he'd found the whole thing a massive surprise. Which, whether this had been an accident or murder, most likely had been.

"All right," Cross said, thinking. "Keep him around, I want to talk to him myself. Forensics on their way yet?"

"Not quite, Sarge," said the youth, stepping from foot to foot as if he needed the toilet.

"Oh? That something I need to do meself down in these parts, is it?"

"No, Sarge - ma'am - not usually. Unless you want to, that is."

"Well, then? Why aren't they on their way?" Celia screwed up her eyes behind her glasses. She should take them off, but there was still light she couldn't handle filtering through the open door of the tent. "What's the problem?"

The constable didn't answer. Instead, he turned to look over his shoulder, out into the hollow, foggy light burning above the mud outside.

Cross followed the angle of his glance. Two men huddled against the bright wind. One was tall and athletic-looking, dressed in the sharpest suit she'd seen outside of a shop window. She recognised him without knowing who he was, which meant he was from the telly, which meant he was probably an Olympic Committee bigwig. The other she identified as her Detective Inspector.

"Oh, Christ on a bike," she muttered. "That's all I bloody need."

* * *

><p>Professor Leo Dalton put down his phone and sighed heavily before standing up. Looking at his watch, he headed for the outer office – toward the desks belonging to his two younger colleagues, Doctors Harry Cunningham and Nikki Alexander.<p>

Lost in thought, he wasn't at all prepared for the sight that greeted him. Doctor Alexander was standing precariously on a swivel chair, stretching up toward the corner of the room in an attempt to pinion a length of bushy red tinsel into it. Doctor Cunningham, meanwhile, was holding onto the chair in an attempt to prevent her breaking her neck. The entire escapade looked like a Health and Safety nightmare.

Leo stopped and watched them silently for a second. They were bickering quietly, far more like a pair of children than two of the nation's most respected pathologists.

"I still think it's too much."

"It's not too much, Harry. It's Christmas. How can tinsel be _too __much_?"

"I'd just… prefer to work somewhere tasteful, that's all. And by tasteful I mean that it shouldn't look like a shopping centre. Is that too much to ask?"

"You're over-reacting. There…" Nikki managed to get the tinsel to stay in place, and leaned back to admire her handy work. "I still think we need more. Can you pass me some from the box?"

"You must be joking. You'll be telling me I have to dress up in a Santa outfit next."

Leo cleared his throat. They both looked over their shoulders at him. The chair wobbled.

"Is this really appropriate?" He asked, indicating the hoard of decorations that had appeared in the room.

Nikki looked around. "What's wrong with it?"

"What's– well, for a start, this is a place of science. Isn't it? Or did I take a wrong turn at reception and now I've ended up in Narnia by mistake?"

"You should be grateful," Harry told him, taking Nikki's outstretched hand and helping her back to solid ground. "She wanted a _tree_. I talked her out of it. Thank me later. With beer."

"Oh, for God's sake," Nikki said, in mock exasperation. "What's the matter with you both? It's Christmas! What's wrong with a little festive cheer?"

Leo shook his head, but knew he wasn't doing enough to hide his smile. "All right. But let's draw the line now, shall we? I don't want evidence contaminated by a stray pine needle. Especially now."

Harry looked up as he returned to his desk. "Oh? Why, what's happened?"

Leo glanced at the clock on the wall. "I've just had a call from the Chief of Police himself. He took great pains to tell me that the Mayor of London was also present in his office. A body's been found at the Olympic site. Obviously, they're anxious to be seen to be all over it."

"Obviously," Harry said dryly. "And they want the best of the best working out what happened, so you've just popped in to tell us you're off out to the East End, am I right?"

"Half right, actually. I'm due in court in half an hour, so it'll have to be you two. Show of force should keep them happy. Oh, and keep me in the loop, would you? We'll have to have our socks pulled up for this one."

[TBC]


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:** Sorry for the slow update. I've been hit by the lergie. Thank you for the reviews - they've done a lot to cheer me up! Hope I don't disappoint.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

They took Nikki's car, easing out into the rush-hour traffic and away towards the East. By the time they reached the incident scene, the early-morning fog was finally beginning to burn off, leaving behind it a damp, grey London day. Nikki glanced up through the windscreen.

"Do you think we'll get snow this year?" She wondered aloud, as she pulled into the works entrance. "After last year, I can't believe we won't get any."

"God, I hope not," Harry muttered. "Can't stand the stuff. Gets down your neck, in your ears… Horrible."

Nikki shook her head. "You are such a cynic, Doctor Cunningham."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Doctor Alexander."

"I'm not even going to grace that with an answer," she replied, and then frowned, pulling to an abrupt stop. "What's going on here?"

Harry leaned forward. "Looks like the press have beaten us to it."

Ahead of them was the security gate they had been directed to enter. In front of that were a series of cars and outside broadcast vans, zig-zagged across the street.

Nikki eased forward again. One distinct advantage of not being police at a scene was like this was being able to move about incognito. They were stared at, and a couple of the journalists aimed cameras in their windows, just to cover the bases, but there was no banging on the glass, no crass shouting.

"God, I hope this turns out to be an accident," she said, as they finally made it to the gate. "Or this is just the beginning."

They showed their ID to the police on duty and the gate and were ushered through into the relative calm beyond.

"Who did Leo say was leading the enquiry on this one?" Harry asked, as they pulled to a stop and climbed out.

"DS Cross, apparently."

"New one on me."

"Me too." She opened the boot and pulled out her incident scene kit as Harry did the same. Nikki looked around as they stood side-by-side, pulling on their thin white overalls. The tent housing the body stood alone in a courtyard square of bare dirt that had been created by four large tower blocks built facing each other. High above them, the main construction had topped out, but she could see heavy plastic sheeting taking the place of the glass that had yet to be set in place.

There were uniformed police everywhere. A little way to her left, she could see a small temporary hut, smaller than an average portacabin, but with the same flimsy look. Outside it stood a man of about retirement age, talking earnestly with a younger woman in a tailored navy blue suit. She was wearing sunglasses and listening carefully to everything the older man said, nodding here and there. As Nikki pulled her hood up to cover her hair, the woman glanced over at them, and then broke off her conversation. She took off the glasses and headed for Nikki and Harry, stepping confidently over the uneven ground.

"Look out," Harry said quietly, into her ear. "I think this might be our DS."

Nikki watched as the woman approached. She was about 35, tall and striking, with wavy dark hair that had been hurriedly tied back in a loose knot at the base of her neck. Her eyes were green, her nose was roman and her cheekbones were of the kind that meant she'd never look old, even when she was. Nikki noticed there was a bruise forming on one of them.

The woman stuck out a hand, offering it first to Nikki, and then to Harry. "Morning," she said, her Scottish accent unmistakable. "Detective Sergeant Cross. Celia. You're here from the Home Office?"

"That's right," Harry told her, with a friendly smile. "Harry Cunningham and Nikki Alexander. Pathologists."

Cross nodded, but didn't return Harry's smile. Nikki studied her face, seeing the dark circles hidden beneath the make-up under her eyes. "Glad they sent two of ye. The sooner we can clear this up, the better."

"I think they're anxious to make sure everything's covered," Nikki said. "We passed five or six photographers on the way in. The story's out already."

The detective nodded with a frown. "Aye, one of the labourers must have leaked it. We tried to shut it down, but wi' the day shift arriving as the body was found, there was no chance. I likely don't need to tell ye that the suits are hoping the two of ye will rule it an accident. They're already puffing down my neck, and the body's hardly cold yet."

"Is that a scientific assessment, detective?"

Cross's eyes grew harder at Harry's gentle barb. "Oh, don't ye worry yousel', Doc. I know where not to stick my nose. Your business is your business, and I'm sure you'll do it well, or they'd no have sent ye. At least, you'd better. We're all under the spotlight here. We've already got an ID, by the way, which is useful." Cross reeled off the Greek name. "Quiet chap, by all accounts." She nodded toward the white tent. "That's where you're needed. I've still got a word or two to get out of Fred. I'll be back when I'm done."

"Fred?" Nikki asked.

The detective jerked her chin toward the older man she'd been talking to as they arrived. He was still standing in the same spot, nervously rubbing his hands together against the cold. "Fred Walker, the night watchman who was on duty last night. Or not, as the case may be."

She gave them a brusque nod and walked away.

"What a charming woman," said Harry, as they headed for the tent. "I really feel as if we're working in tandem to achieve the best possible results."

"She must be under a lot of pressure. And it's not all bad – when was the last time the police left us alone to do what we needed to without interfering?"

Harry held open the tent flap and waved her through. "Can't remember. Make the most of it, it can't last."

Nikki looked down at the corpse, feeling Harry come to stand beside her on the moist ground.

"Nasty way to go," Harry remarked.

Nikki pulled out the camera and shot the scene before Harry scrambled down into the trench and then reached up to help her down.

"No visible blood trail on the walls of the ditch," Nikki noted. "So whatever happened probably happened right here."

Harry didn't answer immediately. Instead he knelt down beside the body. "The body's still warm to the touch. I'd put time of death at not more than four hours." He paused with a frown. "I think there are crush injuries to the back of the head." Harry picked up one of the arms, turning it slightly to view the palm. "Look at this."

Nikki leant in. The palm was macerated, the fingers split and bloodied. "You're right." She glanced back at the man's face, but apart from the metal spike protruding from his forehead, his skin was unblemished. "So – he fell backwards from somewhere? Where?"

Harry stood up. "Well, it can't have been from directly overhead. There's nothing up there but sky, and his injuries aren't severe enough to have been caused from falling from the roof of one of those tower blocks."

Nikki examined the metal pole, reaching out to run a gloved finger along it. It was clean stainless steel, with a faint ridge. She looked closer at the visible end. It wasn't smooth. "I think this is a bolt of some kind," she said. "The head has sheared off." She looked up at Harry, frowning down at her. "Maybe this _was_ work-related. An accident with a bolt gun of that size – any size in fact – would easily be lethal."

Harry nodded. "We'll need to find where he fell from."

Nikki nodded, taking a soil sample. "Did you notice the bruise on her cheek?"

"Who's cheek?"

"DS Cross's. Right under her eye."

"Can't say I did. Should I have?"

"Not necessarily. I did, that's all."

Harry bagged the corpse's hands, careful not to disturb the layers of damaged skin. "She's a policewoman. She probably broke up a fight last night, or something. They do that kind of thing, you know."

Nikki sat back on her heels, bagging the evidence as she shook her head. "No marks on her hands. No scrapes, or abrasions."

Harry stood up and sighed. "So – what are you saying?"

"Nothing. I don't know, I just noticed it, that's all."

"Well, I have a feeling that DS Cross can look after herself. And we should probably stick to the matter at hand. Don't you think?"

Nikki stood up. "Fine."

"Where are you going?"

She struggled out of the trench, carrying the camera. "Oh, you know. Sticking to the matter at hand. That OK with you?"

Nikki heard Harry's sigh, rising behind her like mist as she pushed her way out of the tent.

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><p>TBC<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

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><p>Nikki took more photographs of the surrounding area, and then left Harry to travel back to Lyell with the Coroner and the body. She felt guilty about it as soon as she'd got out of the security gate, but turning around would have meant negotiating the growing crowd of press again, not to mention an irate police detail who would gave to re-open the gate because of her indecision.<p>

She drove back to the centre alone and in silence. Nikki had been treating Harry with kid gloves in the months since his horrific ordeal in Hungary. To begin with, she'd thought she'd never get him back - not properly, not the Harry who delighted in inappropriate jokes and late-night drinks, in teasing her mercilessly. Not the Harry who seemed, if not always happy, then at least content and always, _always_, pleased to see her. And who could blame him, given what he'd undergone, and what he had lost?

But she had persisted in hope and in effort, because the alternative was to lose him completely, and that was a thought she could not bear. And slowly, he had returned - perhaps not entirely, but at least enough to be recognisable as the 'old' Harry. And that, in turn, had presented Nikki with a new problem, one that she hadn't seen coming – or at least hadn't acknowledged - until it hit her squarely between the eyes.

He was back, her Harry, almost the same as he'd always been.

And that was the problem. He was acting as if nothing had changed, which was what Nikki wanted but also what she didn't want. Because things _had_ changed. They must have done for him, and they had fundamentally for Nikki. In her head, in her heart, everything had changed. He had died - she'd thought she'd lost him, finally and irrevocably. And then he'd reappeared, a shadow of his former self. He'd regained his heft, eventually, but she hadn't regained the piece of her heart that had been eclipsed by his absence, and then swallowed by his oblivious return.

Every now and then she was reminded of it, that something in her was hollow, and the person who she most wanted to fill it hadn't noticed. He'd returned to normal, which meant the teasing was back, which meant that, as with this morning, Harry Cunningham was occasionally the most irritating person she knew.

It was gone 11am when she returned to her desk. Nikki packaged and processed the soil sample and sent it for analysis. Then, as she downloaded the photographs from the scene, she looked up the historical soil records for that area for cross-checking purposes. It was unlikely what was in the earth at the site was relevant to this particular investigation, but if ever there was a time for crossing the t's and dotting the i's, it was now.

Leo returned half an hour later. He stuck his head around the door.

"How did it go?"

Nikki swivelled her chair to look at him. "Do you mean as an investigation, or an exercise in media avoidance?"

He pulled a face. "Already?"

"They were waiting when we got there."

"Early thoughts?"

Nikki shook her head. "Too complicated. The only thing we're reasonably sure about at this stage is his ID and a time of death."

"Well, that's more than we have for a lot of cases."

"True. I think the PM will shed a lot of light."

"Good." Leo's eyes drifted briefly to the empty desk in front of her. "Where's Harry?"

Nikki swivelled back to her computer screen. "Coming back with the body."

"Right." She could feel his eyes on her back. And then after a moment, Leo said, "Everything OK?"

"Mmm hmm," she nodded, still with her back turned.

"Right," said Leo again. Nikki heard him tap the flat of his hand against the jamb for a moment, and then she was alone again.

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><p>"Does that a lot, does she?" DS Cross asked, as she pulled away from the curb with Harry in her passenger seat. "Leave you behind with the body, I mean."<p>

Harry glanced at her. He could see the bruise that Nikki had been talking about now. It lit Cross's cheek with a shine any schoolboy would have been proud of.

"Only when I annoy her."

"And that happens a lot, does it?"

"Seems to. Recently, anyway."

Cross nodded to the police at the gate and drove the Mondeo out into the press scrum beyond. "How did ye manage it this time?"

Harry slid his gaze away from her bruised cheekbone. "You probably don't want to know."

Cross lifted her shoulders in a half-shrug, apparently satisfied to leave the matter there. Harry was grateful. Something told him – as he'd tried to tell Nikki, as clumsily as ever – that this woman was not to be messed with. He felt the same even despite her kind and frankly surprising offer to take him back to the lab herself. Of course, she was hoping for a swift autopsy, so she'd probably been intending it as her next port of call anyway, but she could have let him sit in the back of the Coroner's van with Epithemus, and she hadn't.

"Any early hints?" She asked, as they pulled away from the flashing cameras and back into the traffic of London proper. Her words were economical, a style Harry was quickly beginning to realise was her general approach to everything.

He shook his head. "Sorry. I don't want to speculate. The PM should tell us more."

"He was probably killed there though, that's reet enough?"

"What makes you say that?"

"No blood trail." She must have felt Harry's eyes on her, and glanced at him. "What? Don't your detectives do any of the detecting doon here?"

"Down here? You mean, where we are now?"

Cross offered a sardonic smile, though whether it was aimed at him or herself, Harry couldn't guess. "I transferred two months ago. Most folk would say I'm still finding me feet."

"Transferred? From where, Glasgow?"

This time there was a definite flash of amusement, hidden in argumentative eyes. "Now who's the detective? What was your first clue?" She didn't wait for an answer, instead turning back to the case. "Could it be an accident?"

Harry shook his head again. "Anything's possible, but I'm not ruling anything in or out at this stage. You know how it is."

Cross sighed heavily. "I do. Don't commit and can't be called on it."

"That's not really–"

She waved a hand to cut him off. "Don't fuss. Just make the autopsy a quick one, would you?"

Before he could answer, her phone rang. Cross cursed and fumbled in her pocket to pull out her blue tooth earpiece. She chucked the phone to him as she clipped it on, pointing to the hub on the dashboard.

"Plug it in, would ye?"

Harry did as he was told, and she answered. He watched both of her hands gripping the Mondeo's wheel until the knuckles blanched white. Nikki was right. Her hands were smooth and unmarked, her short nails pristine with clear varnish. Detective Sergeant Cross had not been in a fight. At least, not one in which had she fought back. Harry glanced back at her face. Her brow was creased in a frown as she concentrated on the call. He noticed that she tried to control her accent – to smooth out the harshest aspects of the Glaswegian twang.

"Yes sir. No, sir – I'm with one of the pathologists now. No, sir, not yet, but –" Harry could hear the strident tone on the other end, even if he couldn't make out the words. "Yes, sir. Yes, sir, of course. I'll meet you there."

Cross pulled the Bluetooth appliance from her ear in a fit of annoyance she diplomatically aimed at the gadget rather than the call. "Christ! _Hate_ those bloody things."

"Trouble?"

The DS glanced across at him. "Not for me. For you, maybe."

"Oh?"

"Looks like you'll have more than me as an audience at this autopsy. Better get your game face on, doc."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Author****'****s****note:** Sorry for the slow pace and updating of this story. At the moment my head feels as if it's made of Play-doh. Thanks for the reviews, they really mean a lot!

Oh, and probably best not to read this chapter while you're eating...

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><p>Nikki was already in the cutting room when Harry entered with DS Cross. She'd gone down in anticipation of him being with the body when it arrived. She'd wanted a word with him before the pandemonium of the autopsy and the outcome began - to say sorry, mostly, but also just to check up on him. She seemed to be doing that a lot lately.<p>

"Here we are," Harry was saying to the policewoman cheerfully, as Nikki approached. "Sure you want to watch from down here?" He indicated the observation room above. "Most of our police colleagues prefer to stay up there. Coffee machine and everything."

"No, I'm fine doon here." The woman gave Nikki a little nod, and then asked. "Are the two of ye going to get started now?"

"No time like the present," said Harry, passing Nikki as he headed for the gurney.

"But - the body isn't even prepped yet," Nikki protested. "George hasn't had time to undress him, let alone wash the corpse. Don't you think-"

"DS Cross, Harry, Nikki." Leo's voice boomed at them from the observation room. "Would you come up here, please?"

The three of them turned to see Leo standing beside an imposing looking man in what seemed to be the full dress uniform of the Metropolitan Police. Nikki saw Harry glance at Cross, but the woman's face was impassive, her jaw set, giving nothing away.

Once in front of them, the uniformed man seemed even more imposing. Cross introduced him as Chief Inspector Huxley, but they didn't get much further that that.

"Good God, Cross," Huxley barked, in a clipped Eton accent. "What on earth is that on your face?"

Cross put her hand up to her cheek, wincing as her fingers came in contact with the bruise there.

"Did you go out on the job like that?" Huxley asked, clearly horrified. "I don't know how they do it in Scotland, Cross, but in London I expect a degree of decorum from my officers, especially on such a high profile case."

Cross's cheeks turned red beneath the pressure of his onslaught. "Sorry, sir. It wasn't that bad first thing, and..."

"How did you do it?" Huxley demanded, as if she hadn't spoken. "It had better not have been a drunken brawl."

Cross cleared her throat and found her voice. Nikki could see the anger beneath the humiliation in her eyes. When she spoke, though, her voice was crisp and cool. "Of course not, sir. It - it was my ween – my daughter. She's got these wooden play bricks her da' bought her. She's got into the habit of - well, you don't need to know the details, sir."

There was a moment of silence.

"Well, it could have been worse, I suppose," said Huxley. "But don't let it happen again. And do something to cover it, Cross, for God's sake. Use make-up, or whatever it is women use. If this case doesn't go the way we want it to - heaven forbid - you're the most presentable face we've got to go in front of the press. Usually, that is."

Cross nodded. "Yes sir."

"Well," said Leo, into the awkward silence that followed. He out a hand. "Doctor Harry Cunningham, Doctor Nikki Alexander. These are the two pathologists assigned to the case – they're best I've had the privilege to work with in a long time."

The Chief Inspector nodded. He looked at Harry, but not at Nikki. "Doctor Cunningham, you'll be conducting the PM." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"Doctor Alexander and I will conduct it together," Harry told him smoothly.

Huxley glanced at her, and then back to Harry with a brief but dismissive nod. "I don't need to tell you how important it is that this matter is cleared up in record time," he said, in a tone of voice that suggested he rarely experienced contradiction. "The eyes of the world are upon us for the Olympics, and so for this investigation. And, more importantly," here Huxley chuckled dryly, "the mayor's are, too. So - shall I expect results later today?"

He was still looking at Harry. It was probably invisible to anyone else except perhaps for Leo, but Nikki saw Harry's hackles rise.

"Not sure," Harry said, "you want us to do a thorough job, obviously, Chief Inspector. All avenues pursued. No effort spared... No corners cut in favour of a quick result?"

Huxley narrowed his eyes. "Of course."

"Then I won't set a timescale for results. I'm sure you understand."

The Chief Inspector put his arms behind his back and squared his shoulders. "All eyes are going to be on you, Doctor Cunningham."

"Doctor Alexander and I will bear that in mind."

Harry glanced at Leo, who nodded, and then he headed back to the cutting room, Nikki and Cross with him.

"Where's the bathroom?" Cross asked, once they were back in the sterile, white surroundings below.

"Through the double doors and to the right, through the locker room," Nikki told her. "You can't miss it."

Cross nodded. "Two minutes," she said.

Nikki watched as the policewoman pushed through the doors and disappeared. Then she looked at Harry. "I'll be right back."

Harry nodded, but didn't comment.

DS Cross was standing in front of the mirror when Nikki walked in, her face turned slightly to one side as she leaned in to examine her cheek. She glanced up when the door opened, her eyes meeting Nikki's in the reflection before her. It was less than a second before she looked away again and ran the tap to rinse her hands.

"Something I can do for you, Doc?" she asked, in a tone that distinctly suggested there had better not be.

Nikki ignored the undercurrent of hostility. She understood it wasn't directed at her - or rather, it wasn't only directed at her. It had more to do with her boss's display a moment ago. That, and the million other things Nikki sensed were not as DS Cross quite desired them to be. She raises her hand, offering the tube she held in it.

"Witchhazel and Arnica," Nikki explained. "It'll help with the bruising. And the pain, too."

Cross stared at the ointment, and at first Nikki thought she was going to refuse it. But after a moment, the woman gave a small, lop-sided smile, her long fingers brushing Nikki's as she reached out to take it.

"Thanks. Much chance it'll work over night?"

"None, I'm afraid. But it will help."

Cross nodded, taking a deep breath before opening the tube and squeezing some of the cream into her palm. She turned back to the mirror to apply it.

"How old is your little girl?" Nikki asked.

"Just two."

Nikki nodded. "She must be strong for her age."

Cross paused, her eyes meeting Nikki's again. This time the look in them was as cold as flint. "Aye. They are. You'd know that if you had weens of your own. But ye don't. Do ye?"

Nikki looked back. "We're starting the autopsy now," she said.

Cross turned the tap on again. "I'll be there."

* * *

><p>"I'm now going through the victim's pockets," Harry said, aloud. They'd started by stripping the body, which now lay naked on the stainless steel gurney, awaiting the knife.<p>

There was the harsh squeak from a protesting microphone, and Huxley's voice came over the tannoy.

"Please refrain from using the label 'victim' in this case before you've established it in fact," he instructed. "No need to sensationalise, Doctor."

Harry didn't even look up as he lined up a series of small belongings. "He's a victim of something, Chief Inspector. Murder, accident, stupidity… Whatever it turns out to be, he's a victim all the same. For the tape, I have taken from the victim's jeans pockets one pen - a Biro, by the looks of it, one wallet, with a driving licence registered to the name of... Antonious Epithemus, and..." he paused with a frown. "What's that?"

Nikki leaned in to look over his forearm. The object in question was about three inches long by one inch wide and half an inch deep, made of silver-coloured plastic. It had a small digital screen on one side and a short series of buttons on the other. On the top was a square formed of small holes, like a grille.

"What have you got, Harry?" Leo asked, from his vantage point above.

"It looks like a digital recorder of some kind," Harry said.

Cross moved in to take a closer look. "Can you turn it on? See if it recorded anything?"

Harry pressed the power button, but the screen stayed blank.

"The battery's probably dead," said Nikki.

"It'll have a card in the back," Cross said. "Once ye've logged it, we'll take it and plug it in, see if we can find anything on it."

"What was a builder doing with a voice recorder?" Nikki asked.

Cross shook her head. There was no obvious answer.

"OK," said Harry, nodding to the lab assistant to remove the tray of possessions. "We'll begin the examination of the body by first removing the embedded metal implement. Doctor Alexander?"

Nikki turned and picked up the buzz saw and her goggles. Usually, the cranium would be transected laterally from ear to ear, across the forehead. In this case, however, the position of the metal spike meant adopting a different approach.

First, Nikki severed the pipe as close to the victim's skin as possible. Harry gripped the other end to stop it falling onto the body. Then she exchanged the saw for sharp- ended forceps and tried to prise the rest of the metal from the skull. She gave up after a few moments and looked up at Harry.

"We'll have to cut," she said.

Harry nodded, passing her a scalpel. She cut through the victim's scalp from the top of the ear, across the forehead to where the metal was embedded, and then on to the other ear. Putting down the scalpel, Nikki peeled back the two flaps of skin, and then glanced up. Harry was ready with a buzz saw and a pair of goggles. Nikki took both, and he put on his own glasses as he ushered DS Cross back from the table.

Nikki cut into the corpse's skull, splitting the hard plate of the forehead and releasing the pressure as she slowly moved it toward the metal pole, careful not to touch it with the jagged circular blade. She lifted the saw, turning it off and passing it back to Harry, who exchanged it for the forceps again.

This time, the piece of metal moved, coming free of the skull and the soft tissue beneath. The section that had entered the man's head was about three inches in length. It had completely penetrated almost perfectly between his left and right hemispheres and forced its way into his parietal lobe.

Nikki used the forceps to place the piece of metal she had just retrieved end-to-end with the part she had already cut. The killing end had a smooth, flat end to it.

Harry measured the complete article. "245.5 centimetres," he read out. "The metal had a thread to it that runs clockwise the length of the implement. In my view, this reinforces Doctor Alexander's suggestion that this could be some kind of industrial bolt."

Cross made a note on a pad she had pulled from her suit pocket. "I'll ask the foreman about it. I'm going back to talk to him as soon as we're done here."

Harry measured each of the victim's arms, and then held the tape against the bolt again.

"Well," he said. "I think we can be fairly sure that cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head."

Cross made another note. "I'll find out if there was a shift working last night," she said. "Do you think, if this was a bolt, he could have accidentally fired it himself?"

Harry and Nikki exchanged looks. "It's too early to say," Nikki spoke up. "It would depend on the method that the bolt gun is fired, and how deeply the shaft is embedded in the gun – as you can see the length of the bolt far exceeds that of the victim's arm. So if it was a gun that only clamped on to the head, for example, it's unlikely he had the reach to fire it himself."

"There's also the fact that it didn't penetrate straight through the cranial cavity and through the back of his skull," Harry added. "That probably means he wasn't standing directly in front of the gun – if that's what it was. If he had been, the damage would have been far worse."

Cross nodded, still making notes.

"Let's turn the body over before we go further with the internal examination," Harry said. "I want to look at those crush injuries."

The rest of the autopsy was pretty standard. Antonious Epithemus had been reasonably fit and healthy. He was mid-30s, with no serious physical defects, no sign of heart disease and no beer gut. His last meal had been several hours before he died, which would be consistent with a late evening dinner, and had been made up of beef and vegetables. The crush injuries had been inflicted by falling or being projected a distance of around ten metres, at an estimate. They agreed on the word 'projected' for the official report as both the man's legs were broken in three places – the heel, the knee and the thigh. This had likely been caused by him being thrown backwards, although it was impossible to determine whether this had been post or peri-mortem.

"That's all?" Huxley boomed from overhead, as the lab tech took charge of sewing up the remains.

"It is until the bloods come back," yes."

At Harry's words, the Chief Inspector left, as abrupt in his departure as he had been in his manner.

"Charming man," Harry muttered, as he pulled off his gloves.

"Sorry," Cross offered, somewhat to Nikki's surprise. "I'll do me best to keep him out of your hair. What's next?"

"What's next," said Nikki, "is that we take a shower and then get on with the analysis."

"Fair enough," Cross said, flipping her notebook shut. "Then I'll head back to the site to see the foreman. Let me know if ye come up with any more questions tae ask him."

* * *

><p>TBC<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

><p>Harry showered, thinking about the mysteries of the case. They really needed to determine both what had fired the bolt, and where Epithemus had been when he was struck by it. From memory and his now deeper knowledge of the man's injuries, nowhere fitted the bill. All the sites at the scene he could recall were too high, or else too far from the trench.<p>

Turning off the water, Harry leaned his forehead against the glass for a moment, the steam rising up around him like a shroud. His shoulders ached from the workout he'd put himself through that morning. He'd never been a fan of the gym before, but recently he'd been finding himself drawn to it more and more. He'd wake up early, no matter how late he forced himself to go to bed. He'd find himself lying there, wide awake, his mind open to all the thoughts he could push away during the working day, but not when he was alone, idle, in bed. So he'd get up, and Harry had discovered that the best place to go right then was the gym. He could lose hours on a treadmill or lifting weights, thinking of nothing more than his heart rate, of upping the tempo just a little more, of pushing himself a little faster, of adding one more weight.

Anything was better than the endless cycle of silent guilt, anger and pain his mind seemed locked into. It was a treadmill all of its own - endless, debilitating.

Harry pushed away from the glass, drying and then dressing quickly. He strode out of the men's changing room to find Nikki sitting on the bench in front of her locker, lost in thought.

"Nikki?"

She looked up at him, her frown intact. Then she smiled at him, but it was wan and weak, and there was still a trace of the frown beneath. He sat down next to her. She hadn't dried her hair, blonde fronds of it curling slightly against her ears.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"You're not still worrying about Cross, are you?"

Nikki shook her head, but Harry knew her too well not to see the hesitation before the gesture.

"What did she say, when you went after her?"

"How do you know that's where I went?"

"Come on, Nikki. We've been friends a long time."

She nodded again, and he caught another spark of sadness in her eyes. "Nothing. She didn't say anything."

"Then what's upset you? Was it me? This morning?"

"No. Nothing. I'm not upset, it's just..."

"Just what?"

She shrugged. "It's Christmas soon."

"I think we established that with the tinsel this morning," he teased, knocking his shoulder into hers, gently. She didn't smile.

"Leo's right, I should take it all down. It's a stupid idea."

"What? No, it isn't. Come on, Nikki - without you, Leo and I would just be two grumpy old men grunting into our pints at this time of year. We rely on you to drag us out of it."

"It's all so pointless though, isn't it?" Nikki said, standing. "Christmas, I mean. It's just a silly waste of time if you haven't got-" She stopped abruptly, her back to him.

"If you haven't got what?" he asked.

Nikki didn't answer immediately. Then she shook her head. "Nothing. Sorry, ignore me."

"No," Harry insisted, deliberately keeping his voice light as he stood, too. "Come on, what were you going to say? Christmas is pointless of you haven't got - what? A tortoise? A penthouse in Kensington? A train set?"

Nikki shook her head again, turning to look at him, but not with the kind of amused look he'd been aiming to pull out of her. "Let's go," she said. "There are some additional photos of the scene I want you to see."

She stepped away, but Harry stopped her. "I know what you were going to say," he said, quietly. "You were going to say that Christmas is pointless if you don't have a family. Or maybe it was going to be, 'if you don't have children.' Am I right? And you stopped yourself because you thought it would upset me."

Nikki frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I - I wasn't thinking. I just - DS Cross said something, and it made me think, and - I didn't mean to…" she trailed off, shrugging helplessly. "I'm just – sorry."

Harry sighed. "Come here," he said, taking hold of Nikki's forearms and pulling her to him. "I'm not made of glass. There's no need to wrap me in cotton wool. Life goes on. I don't want you to censor yourself every time you talk to me."

She sighed, her head beneath his chin. "I don't-"

"You do," he said, interrupting. He pulled back at little so he could look at her face. "Nikki, you're the only thing that's got me through these last few months. You, and Leo. I know I haven't thanked you, either of you, properly."

She shook her head, but didn't seem to have anything to say. Nikki rested her forehead back on his chest, and Harry wrapped his arms around her again. Something had changed between them over the past few months, he knew that. He just couldn't pinpoint what, and in the midst of his own maelstrom of emotional confusion, he didn't want to look too closely. As selfish as it was, he was having enough trouble dealing with the immediate realities of what had happened – both to him, and to the family he came so close to having, but had lost before he even knew it was there. He couldn't delve into his relationship with Nikki, not as well as coping with everything else. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Right now, he wished they could turn back the clock. A year, maybe two. That felt like an age. Back then, when everything had been simpler.

_Simple?_ Harry asked himself. _Had __it __really __been __simple __between __them, __back __then?_

He didn't have to stop himself following that chain of thought, as Nikki did it for him. She pushed away from him with another smile, pushing her mussed hair behind her ears.

"Leo and I are always here for you. You know that."

He nodded. "Yes. I do."

"I'm sorry about this morning."

"Don't be. I probably deserved it. Anyway, it gave me time to get to know the curious DS Cross."

Harry saw the flicker that passed through Nikki's eyes at his mention of the name. He dipped his head and waited for her to meet his eyes. "What did she say to you?"

Nikki sighed. "Nothing. Really, nothing. She just – made me think, that's all. And that bruise…"

"You can't save everyone."

"But I want to."

He laughed. "I know you do. Come on," he said, decisively, checking his watch. It was past 1pm. "Let's take the photos and discuss them over lunch. I'm starving."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note** – sorry for the long delay in picking this up again. I've been struggling to write anything at all so far this year.

* * *

><p>They went to the Italian around the corner for lunch. It was local enough to have become their regular haunt, and the staff knew them perhaps a little too well. They were always ushered into a corner that wasn't overlooked, probably because of the folder Nikki carried – perhaps the waiters knew from experience that it would contain pictures the rest of their diners probably wouldn't appreciate looking at over their meatballs.<p>

They waited until they'd eaten their pasta before spreading the pictures out. This time, they held nothing messier than mud trampled by footprints and tyres.

"This is the one I wanted you to see," Nikki said, singling one of the pictures out and pulling it toward her. They were seated side-by-side, and Harry leaned over to look. "Look at the width of that track. I measured it – the tyres are 19", and I'd say the depth of that tread is an inch or more. I cross-referenced the size of the wheel base and it's come up as a 7.5 ton Iveco."

Harry shook his head. "I'm impressed, but I'm not sure why. Sorry, I never was much good with road vehicles. Planes are my thing."

"It's a flat-bed lorry, sometimes fitted with its own crane or other specific heavy-duty equipment."

He raised his eyebrows. "Like a bolt gun, for example?"

"Exactly. And," Nikki added, pointing at the picture again, "look at the way the tracks lying across the others. They were made the most recently of all of them, and Cross told us that the nightwatchman's log recorded the last vehicle to leave as being a Subaru mini-van, which this definitely isn't. Harry, I think this Iveco could be both where it happened, and what happened."

Harry picked up the photo and looked at it more closely, nodding. "I think I see where you're going with this, but spell it out, just in case."

"Well, if this truck had a bolt gun fitted to it, and it was the one fired at Epithemus, it would explain his leg injuries and how he came to be laying in the trench with no blood trail. Say he's standing on the flat bed of the truck, in front of the bolt gun. It goes off, smashing into his skull – the force picks him up and propels him from the flat-bed, landing him in the trench. There might be blood on the flat bed – but if it was close enough to the trench when Epithemus stumbled over the back of it, that would explain the lack of blood trail. The actual death site just… drove off."

Harry put down the picture, still nodding. "Seems distressingly plausible."

"Why 'distressingly'? I thought you'd be pleased that we've solved a mystery."

"Oh, I am. But it does mean one other thing, doesn't it? If the death site drove off after Epithemus died…"

"…someone else knew about his death," finished Nikki. "I know. That still doesn't necessarily mean murder, though. Perhaps whoever he was working with was so shocked at the accident, he drove off without pausing to call the police."

"Hmm," said Harry. "Well, I guess that falls into the 'not our problem' category, doesn't it? We'd better call the person who's plate it's going to land on – Cross needs to know. Apart from anything else, this proves that the nightwatchman was either lying, or asleep when this other truck pulled in and out."

Nikki nodded. "You call her."

"Me? It was your discovery."

"I know – but I've got to get back to the lab." She stood up. "Anyway, she doesn't like me."

"Rubbish. Everyone likes you."

Nikki smiled thinly as she dropped a twenty on the table to cover her half of the meal. "I wish that were true."

* * *

><p>The sun had set by the time Cross reached home. The sky was tainted with streaks of light pollution; the air cracked by music and sirens. She drew the car to a halt outside her new home and let the engine die, taking a moment to look up at the building. It was dark apart from a glow filtering from the living room. Cross looked at her watch – it was gone nine, so Ella would be fast asleep. She sighed. Another bedtime missed.<p>

She'd spent the afternoon interviewing the nightwatchman. She'd been getting nowhere, and then Harry Cunningham had called with the information about the truck and getting nowhere had turned into getting nowhere fast. Her gut told her the old man was telling the truth, but she didn't want to accept it. If he really hadn't heard a bloody great truck pulling in and out of that space, they were screwed. He was their only witness, but he wasn't a witness at all.

The evening had been spent trying to get any sense out of the recording device they'd found in the victim's pocket. What the hell was a labourer doing with a recording device, anyway? It looked as if they were unlikely to find out, because the memory was empty and the sim card similarly so. Cross had finished the day no closer to any answers than she had been when she first arrived at the scene, which seemed like days past.

Cross opened the door and got out of the car, her back aching. It had been a long day, and tomorrow wouldn't be any shorter. Still, part of her would prefer to be in the station or even out on the beat rather than here, about to walk into her own home. At least out there, there were problems that could be solved. Cross touched the bruise on her cheek. She knew the make-up had worn through by now, the vivid purple now developed enough to defeat it anyway, no matter how much slap she applied. It was a statement about what had happened the previous night. It was a statement that would demand a conversation, without her even instigating one, or her having any interest in doing so. The pathologists had gracefully avoided the obvious question – her husband wouldn't.

With a sigh, Cross shut the car door and pulled her door keys from her pocket. The glow filtering through the kitchen told her that Owen was probably in the living room, at the back of the house. She opened the front door quietly.

"Ye're late."

Owen's voice made her jump. She looked up to see him standing at the end of the hallway, silhouetted by the light from the living room.

"Sorry. A bad case came up today. It's…"

Owen stepped forward. "Don't say sorry tae me. It's Ella who doesn't understand what's going on. We up and move away from all her friends, just like that, and ye've hardly been here since."

Celia raised a hand and rubbed it across her eyes. The ache in her cheek had spread to her head. She didn't want another argument, she just wanted a glass of wine and some sleep.

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry, Owen. I really am. I just… the first few weeks in a new nick, it's always difficult. The DCI's a cock, and…" she sighed, breaking off. "Anyway. I'll try harder tae be here more in future. I promise."

Owen stepped into the light that was still coming through the front door window from the security light outside. He was a big man, a head taller than her and with shoulders wide enough to play for Scotland. That had excited her, once.

She knew he'd seen the bruise when his eyes flicked back to her cheek in a quick double-take. He frowned.

"Who did that?"

She turned away, putting the keys back into her pocket and shrugging off her coat.

"Well?" he said, when she didn't answer. "Who was it?"

"It dinnae matter."

Her refusal to answer apparently spoke volumes.

"Me?"

Cross turned back, resisting the urge to sigh at the sound of dread in his voice. "Yeah," she said. "Last night."

There was a brief flash of confusion in his eyes, as she'd known there would be. "It can't have been."

She shook her head, and tried to move past him. He didn't make it easy. He never made anything easy. "It dinnae matter."

"Of course it bloody matters! I remember – a bit of an argument, but – Are ye sure it was me? It wasnae something that happened a' work, and ye've forgotten?"

Cross pushed past her husband and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of wine. It was already open, which it hadn't been last night, but she didn't ask when he'd started it. She poured herself a glass and took a mouthful, leaning against the kitchen counter before turning around and looking him in the eye.

"It's nothing, Owen. It was late, and ye'd had a couple of whiskies, that's all. You know what ye're like on the whisky."

He stared at her, and, as always, she felt herself feeling sorry for him. Not that he deserved it. Owen Cross was a man who beat his wife. And yet Celia always found a reason for letting him get away with it, mainly because she blamed herself for the reasons he let fly. Rationally she knew that was ridiculous; professionally, she knew it was commonplace. Practically, it was the way it had always worked between them. Owen should have had a bright future, but he'd had some disappointments that had left him unable to get up from the floor. When he was really low, he drank, which sank him even more. That was usually when she became the cause of all his imagined slights – Celia, the embarrassing high-flying wife who left him at home to look after their daughter because she was the one that earned more. Or at all. Somehow, that became something he felt she deserved berating for, and in a way Celia understood his reasoning. Giving into her understanding had made her compliant in her own abuse, which in her own mind made her deserve the odd beatings he gave out. She was as tough as nails, everyone on the job knew it. She could defend herself, she just chose not to. That gave her the power, actually. Didn't it? And anyway, he was always sorry. He never remembered, and he was always sorry, and sweet, and caring – afterwards.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I know y'are."

"It won't happen again."

Celia took another gulp of wine, ignoring the hopeful lie.

"It was the whisky, like ye said. I won't drink it again. I promise. And it's just… ye know, being stuck at home, with the bairn…" he laughed. "Well, actually, ye don't know. Ye've never had tae to it. But it's hard, Cel, it's really hard. And I've nae mates doon here… "

The alcohol hit her empty stomach, filling her with a gentle fuzz. Celia smiled, and moved to him. "I know. It's OK," she said, placing her free hand on his chest. "It's OK," she said again. "Just… not the face, eh? The brass dinnae like it."

He touched her cheek, and then leaned down and kissed it, tenderly. Celia wrapped her arm around him and rested her head on his broad shoulder.

"Tired?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Bed?"

"Yes."

* * *

><p>[TBC]<p> 


End file.
